


Specs Appeal

by vertual



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Because of Reasons, F/M, Implied Relationships, Molly technically isn't in it, Sherlock in Glasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 20:43:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8416117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertual/pseuds/vertual
Summary: There is no Sherlock grumpier than a bespectacled one. For a time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time I discovered retinal detachment and tried to write about it. I gave up because it wasn't working. Decided to try a different approach for a giggle.

“Apparently the whole thing ends with her dying in bed, so they didn’t realise what had happened until the curtain dropped and she didn’t get up. Don’t see how they wouldn’t notice the difference between someone pretend dying and someone actually dying when it’s right in front of them, but I suppose they live for the drama, don’t they?”

John doesn’t look up from the notes he’s writing, instead taking mental and written stock of the surrounding scene. _Prima donna_ of the show still centre stage in her character’s bed surrounded by a complete set, looking so restful it’s no wonder no one immediately figured anything was out of the ordinary. The rest of the cast in the wings, all still in costume, separated for statements. Curtain still down, audience now gone, no longer expecting a final call. Sherlock would probably consider it a two for being obvious, but at least it set up like a fun case to write out.

“Suicide, then? The publicity would be big for something like that.”

“In the middle of the run, though?” A quick glance tells John all he needs about Greg’s frustration at the case. “Who would be _that_ dramatic?”

“Well, the show must go on. You could ask our own diva what he thinks of it.”

“Yeah.... Where is he? Not off getting bludgeoned again, I hope.”

“He’s on the other side of the bed,” John points out, nodding in the direction of the consulting drama queen’s station beside the victim. With his head down and his coat on he looks like a shadow in between the colours of the set – but not so vague that John can’t tell he’s squishing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. In the past few weeks he’s had to respond to such headaches no fewer than three times, and only because Sherlock refuses to help himself when they come along. With a sigh, John stows his notebook and fishes in his coat for an altogether different kind of case.

Greg lets out a chuckle once John finally manages to find the right pocket. “Wish you’d have been there and this prepared when it actually happened,” he says. “I could have lived the rest of my life without that image.”

“Right, the zombie eyes. I’d have liked to be there to help, but someone decided not to phone me.”

“Yeah, that entire day didn’t go well.” Greg looks from Sherlock to the newly forming gaggle of cast and crew from the show. “I’m gonna go deal with that lot, you go help the diva.”

As the inspector approaches the actors and stagehands, John approaches the consultant, still hunched in his spot beside the bed. He can tell his friend doesn’t want any attention placed on him at the moment, so John taps him on the shoulder and holds the case beside Sherlock’s head for him to take.

“Get that out of my face,” he grumbles.

“It’s not in your face, it’s beside your face, and you know full well they should be _on_ your face.”

“No.”

“I’ll put them there if you don’t.”

Sherlock remains unmoving for a long moment before snatching the case out of John’s hand and opening it, scowling all the while. He looks positively furious as he puts the spectacles on, blinking rapidly to adjust to the different focus. He looks up at John with a raised brow.

“Satisfied?”

“Very.”

“I hate them.”

“You’re the only one.”

Sherlock makes a noise of disgust and turns his attention back to the victim with his usual thinking pose. John isn’t bothered; he knows he’s right about Sherlock being the one person who doesn’t like Sherlock In Glasses. He likes to joke that Sherlock’s complaining is more tolerable when it’s about the weight on his nose as opposed to the pressure behind his eyes, mostly because he knows Sherlock would hate it if he dared agree with the few people who’ve seen him with the plain, square-lensed, wide-rimmed glasses, because the consensus is that they actually do look good on him. _Smart_ has been the most common compliment, a fact which Sherlock finds less and less flattering every time the word is spoken.

“What do you think, then?” The question catches him a bit off guard, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes. “Of the victim, John.”

“I was thinking suicide before but couldn’t wrap my head around how, but now that I’m beside her I’d say cyanide. Even with her skin tone you can tell she’s red. Judging by her approximate weight a tablespoon two, three hours ago would have done it.”

“Well done, doctor. It’s a wonder I had to come at all.”

“Why did you, then?”

“Because she didn’t commit suicide.” Sherlock stands with a sweeping scan of the rest of the stage, and the spectacles are back in their case before John has a chance to object. “Come along, we’ve got a murder to solve. Where did Lestrade and the cast get to?”

* * *

 

Mary used to think reading John’s blog was the most amusing thing to do on a Sunday morning, but no longer. Now the fun stuff is reading other people’s blogs who’ve shared The Image.

The Image is nothing special, just another day at the office, if the office is Baker Street. It’s a glimpse into the boring daily routine of the great Sherlock Holmes and just a tiny snippet of his life. The novelty comes from the fact that he doesn’t usually allow people looking in from the outside. This time would be no exception, and she’s waiting for him to realise that The Image is a thing that exists. He hasn’t commented on the post, and he hasn’t burst into the house demanding it be removed, which means he hasn’t seen it yet. She wonders which aspect of the photo will be the subject of his worst scrutiny. She knows, of course, but she still wonders.

The post itself was meant to excuse the long space without updates, explaining the whole fatherhood, work life, Sherlock-got-bashed-in-the-head-and-was-in-hospital-for-a-bit chain of events while he finished writing up the opera case, but The Image was what interested people the most.

While The Image is unexceptional to the people in his inner circle, she can see why it’s so popular with his fans. A simple photo of Sherlock reading the paper at the kitchen table wouldn’t be fascinating if not for the fact that he was pyjama-clad and bespectacled at the time. The Image isn’t particularly invasive, just Sherlock leaning over the newspaper with a cup of coffee in hand; tee visibly inside-out under his favourite dressing gown, a big mess of hair on his head, and those specs he hates so much perched on his nose.

So far very few people have mentioned his jammies and bedhead. Her favourite so far has been the surprisingly Sherlock-esque dialogues on what exactly the prescription is. Most of the comments are admiring the glasses.

She’s about to switch back to the tab where John’s blog is open when he drops onto the sofa beside her, carrying his laptop.

“He’s not happy,” she guesses, putting her tablet down in favour of the larger screen. John hands her the laptop when she leans in to read. He’s already scrolled down to the comments section on the post, and Mary’s eyebrows shoot up when she sees how many additions she’s missed since she started her perusal of the web outside John’s blog. “Am I reading all of them?”

“Yeah.” Mary looks at her husband to see a wide grin plastered on his face. It doesn’t falter when he urges her to look at the laptop instead.

“Eleven comments,” she murmurs, starting at the top. “There were none a few minutes ago. But that would be because people are posting it on their own blogs....”

The first comment, unsurprisingly, was Sherlock: _If this is your attempt to make me want to wear them more, it’s failing._

“Oh, I feel bad. He really hates them so much.”

“Keep reading.”

The comments following were posted almost exclusively by visitors; of the ten postings after Sherlock’s, seven were claimed by anonymous users, one from Mrs. Hudson, one from Molly, and another from the man himself. All seven visitor comments were well wishes for John and herself and for Sherlock, or genuinely kind words about the glasses. Mrs. Hudson fell somewhere in the middle where she said his glasses looked _very handsome_ , and a few of the following made to agree with her. Mary checks the page’s tab to see if she should refresh for more comments, but with no notifications, there appeared to be a last word.

When she reads Molly’s comment, she’s fairly certain she knows why.

_All of them are right, Sherlock, they look incredible on you. No one likes them as much as I do, though ;)_

“Oh God,” she says with a giggle. “What did he say to that? That must have been the last one.”

“It doesn’t leave much in the way of guessing.”

The final comment from Sherlock Holmes was to the point and guaranteed radio silence to follow.

_Prove it._


End file.
